Till You Bade Us Adieu
by doritoFace1q
Summary: Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you. —Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens, April 1779. Fem!Hamilton. Come for the Lams, stay for the bullshit.
1. Un

**This was created after my friends and I talked about what characters work genderbent and Hamilton appeared on the list.**

**And then, somehow, it became a full-blown fic.**

**Enjoy my bullshit.**

**(The first chapter's a bit slow, but it'll get better, I promise)**

* * *

_Cold in my professions, warm in [my] friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it m[ight] be in my power, by action rather than words, [to] convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you._

_—__Alexander Hamilton, to John Laurens, April, 1779_

* * *

Waves crashed against the hull of the boat, the body of the ship rocking from side to side, pitching and tossed about in the rolling gale. Alexandra lay on her side in her bunk, sweat-stained clothes, salt-stained and sun-bleached by their weeks at sea, sticking to her skin as she watched the raindrops drench the wood outside the porthole she could just barely see a dark brown.

A crack of thunder illuminated the stormy sea outside, white foam and deep blue of the waves rising high enough to crash against the dirty window, making the glass shudder in its pane. She grimaced, rolling over to lie on her back, the hard wood of the bunk, barely cushioned by the sheet she'd folded neatly and laid over it, digging into her back. The bunk above her creaked as the man in it—a snaggle-toothed old sailor, arms the width of cannon barrels and a neck almost as thick, with a persistent case of bad sunburn on the top of his bald head—shifted, letting out a loud, snuffling snore.

Alex wrinkled her nose as, somewhere in the cramped, stuffy cabin, someone let out a loud, reverberating belch that seemed to make even the nails in the walls quiver, a pungent reek filling the room. Alex rolled over, facing the wall once again, breathing slowly through her mouth and trying to ignore the bile threatening to rise up in her throat.

_October, 1772_. She closed her eyes, mentally composing the entry she would write in her journal, come morning. _Outside, the sea roars like a wounded tiger, and, inside, the men snore with the intensity of a manatee who's had too much to drink. Coupled with the smell of dead and dying fish, and the salty spray that lingers in every nook and cranny, it's enough to make one sick_.

She opened her eyes, staring at the side of the boat, woodwork barely a thumbnail's length away from her face. Another crack of lightning lit up the night sky outside, the following _boom_ of thunder echoing through the hollow body of the boat and making Alex's ears ring. The boat pitched again, and, at almost the exact same time, a noise, like a muffled trumpet, sounded through the room.

Alex stifled her groan as she pinched her nose, stomach rolling as the smell of rotten eggs pervaded the already rancid cabin. _This ship can_not_ move fast enough_.

XXX

Alex's stared, wide-eyed at the mass in the distance that grew larger and larger as the ship cut through the waves, the sailors already making preparations for landing. She leaned forwards, craning her neck to get a better view of the mainland. They were only a few minutes away from shore, and the city was already becoming clear: she saw rows upon rows of buildings—shops, houses, bars, and small cafés—lined up neatly along dirt and cobblestone roads; men and women walked down the streets alongside horse-drawn carriages and mounted riders, fine silk alongside coarse cotton and wool.

She let out an undignified, squawking noise as a passing sailor bumped into her, nearly knocking her into the waves below. "Watch it, Hamilton," he barked over his shoulder as he marched across the deck, a bundle of ropes slung over another shoulder.

"If you're not going to help out, go back under," another sailor shouted, pausing in his movements of tying up the ropes to glare at her.

Alex snorted, adjusting her bag's strap on her shoulder. "Yeah, as if," she grumbled.

XXX

Alex was off the ship before even the sailors, running down the plank and onto the beach. She didn't even bother to turn and acknowledge the shouts coming from the men behind her—a mix of goodbyes and protests—as she rushed up the beach and into town, kicking up trails of sand behind her.

"Woah." She slowed down, turning in a circle, eyes wide with wonder as she looked around her. The buildings were big—logically, Alex knew that they were more or less the same size as the ones back on Nevis, but there were just so much _more_ of them—packed so tightly together, too. Lamposts stood on the sides of the streets, trees of the city, sunlight shining through the glass boxes guarding unlit candles.

The city was _loud_, too. She'd grown use to the creaking of the planks and beams on the ship, the crashing waves and the occasional bellow of a distant whale, but New York was a whole other level. Birds cried out as they swooped past overhead, mixing with the chatter of the people walking by on the streets. Vendors stood outside their stores, hawking their wares, and, even as she watched, a horse trotted by, _clip-clop_ of its hooves on the street echoing through the air.

Alex gripped the strap of her bag, hoisting it a bit higher up her shoulder. "Lord above," she muttered as she watched a small, brown bird hop along the street, taking flight and flitting away as a man kicked at it. _I really am here, aren't I—_

"Move!"

Alex yelped as a wall of force rammed into her, knocking her to the ground. A carriage rattled past, dinner plate-sized hooves of the massive black steeds pulling it slamming into the ground where she'd been standing, ogling at the buildings, not half a second earlier.

The weight on top of her shifted, and the man who'd shoved her out of the way stood up. "You okay, man?" he asked, leaning over and offering a hand. "What on God's wide earth were you doing, standing in the middle of the street?"

"I was—" Alex grimaced as she reached up, grabbing the proffered hand. "Ow."

"Sorry," the man apologized. His grip was strong, but not painfully so. "But, you see, I didn't really have time to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Alex waved him off, ignoring the confusion on his freckled face as she tugged her hand away and turned around. "Whatever. Thanks!"

"Hey, are you—"

But she was off, rushing down a side street. She had other things to think about than a random stranger that she'd never see again.

XXX

The ship's cook—a heavyset man with a soft spot for talkative orphans from the Caribbean, and a lingering reek of garlic upon his breath—had told her about a small inn near the city's square: relatively secluded, down a side alley, and with decent rooming for its pay—'decent' being a subjective term.

A few years ago, Alex would've turned tail and ran the other way at the sight of the building—a seedy-looking front, squeezed between a ramshackle coffeehouse and what she was almost certain was a brothel. Now, though, the stiff mattress on the creaking, half-rotted bedframe in the dust-choked room was like a type of heaven she'd only been able to dream of on the ship.

She grimaced as she peeled the shirt away from her skin and kicked off her boots and breeches. The clothing went into the wooden tub of well water she'd lugged up the stairs, but the boots would have to stay—they were the only footwear she'd found after the hurricane that hadn't been completely destroyed.

Her bag, thankfully, had somehow remained more or less dry through the entire trip. She pursed her lips as she emptied the contents onto the bedspread: her journals and a stick of charcoal, carefully wrapped up in a stained scrap of cloth; a small pouch of coins leftover from the fund; a few spare underthings; and a simple, sun-bleached dress that had somehow survived the storm.

She sighed, picking up the gown and wriggling into it. It hung a bit looser off her thin frame then it was probably intended to be worn, but it would have to do. As an afterthought, she slung the long brown coat she'd snagged from a shipmate over her shoulders, tucking the small, water-stained journal and pouch of coins into an inner pocket.

She paused by the cracked, stained mirror hung by the door, peering at her reflection. She ran a hand through her damp, choppy locks (damp, because she had taken the first chance she'd gotten to dunk her head in a bucket of water and rinse out her armpits; short and choppy, because she had hacked off her waist-length locks the first week on the ship, after they'd gotten tangled in a bundle of ropes and she'd almost experienced an accidental scalping). It would have to do.

After all, where she was going, she'd want to look her best.

XXX

Alex scowled as she marched from the admission's office, hands tucked deep into her pocket's glowering ahead. "Stupid," she grumbled, kicking at the ground (and immediately wincing—she could barely afford room and board, let alone new shoes). "Stupid, _stupid_."

She leaned against a lamppost, crossing her arms and scowling. _What now?_ She moistened her lips, furrowing her brows. _I don't have time for the full course_. She ruffled her hair, irritated. _Damn._

"Hamilton, was it?"

Alex glanced up, raising an eyebrow. She remembered the man, distantly, as one of the many faces that had watched on as she ranted, enraged, at the teary admissions officer. "Yes?" She glanced over the man, taking in the tightly woven material of his fine coat and the silky cravat looped around his throat.

"Lincoln James," he introduced, holding a hand out. Alex stared at it for a long moment before gripping it and shaking it loosely. "Just curious," he continued. "Were you _really_ planning on applying for an accelerated study?"

Alex narrowed her eyes, peering at him. "Yeah. What's it to you?"

Lincoln James shrugged absently, crossing his arms. "Just curious," he repeated. "I mean, you did hear about the reason the course was banned, right?"

Alex crossed her arms too, glaring up at the man (curse her height). "I don't see why others should be denied the opportunity for further education, just because one man fell ill," she countered. "Besides," she added. "There was another student who graduated in just two years, correct?"

James shrugged (an action he seemed to hold a degree of fondness for). "Maybe," he said. "But he had his own reasons."  
"Everybody has their own reasons," Alex said. "Just as he had his, I have mine. What's his name, anyways?"

"Burr," Lincoln told her. "Aaron Burr. I wouldn't try to find him, though, if I were you."

"Whyever not?" she asked.

"He's a busy man," he replied. "Caught up with the revolutionaries. You know," he added. "In the _war_. With the British."

"I _know_ what the war is." She barely refrained from snapping.

"Well, I couldn't be sure," he said. "You're clearly not from around here, though, so I was just making sure. . ."

Alex's knuckles tightened, blood pounding in her skull at the words. She'd been working on her accent with the various crew members on the ship for the past months, and, while it was still strong, it was nowhere nearly as noticeable as it had been when she left Nevis. Unfortunately, she was more than aware that her tanned, sun-bronzed skin, scrawny frame, and shabby mix of clothes made her stick out like a sore thumb from the hordes of plump, milky-skinned men and women in finery. However, that wasn't what bothered her. What truly set her off was the way the man _talked_—as if she were a mere child, who couldn't even wrap her head around the idea of a war.

And, to make it worse, he had to _keep going_.

"Do understand, Miss Hamilton," he said. "I don't mean to belittle you—" She nearly scoffed aloud. "—but, even with the number of able-bodied young men who've gone off to the war, it is still exceptionally difficult for those of a. . ." Her skin prickled with disgust as his gaze trailed over her, lingering for a moment on the way her dress and coat hung loosely off her bony shoulders. "_Gentler_ sensibility to be able to attend a college as prestigious as King's—to attain a full scholarship would be even more difficult, never mind an accelerated course." She could practically hear her bones cracking as she clenched her fists tighter, knuckles turning white.

"If I were you," he continued, reedy voice drilling into her skull, "I would just settle for a gentleman with a larger library, or a student—"

Her self-control fizzled out and died.

_Crack!_

James yelled, stumbling back, clutching his face. "Vy, you—" He looked up at her, eyes wide with anger, blood dribbling onto his shiny, pressed shirt. "_Bitch_—"

Alexandra did the only logical thing one could do in that situation. She turned tail and, ignoring James's furious shouts from behind her, fled, running back into the city.

_Welcome to New York, I guess_.

* * *

**I haven't been able to find any records of how long it took Hamilton to sail from Nevis to NYC (and I'm too tired to do any research right now), but what I do know (thanks to Google) is that Nevis is 2,808 kilometers (or 1,745 miles, for the Americans out there) away from New York City.**

**Now, I have no concept of time or distance, but I'm going to assume this is a big distance. I also have little to no knowledge on how boats back then worked, but I do know they were slow. So, just to be safe, I'm going to say Hamilton spent about two months at sea.**


	2. Deux

_I feel the same," said Telamonian Aias. "My might hands are itching on my spear; my spirit is roused; and my feet_—

Aaron paused in his reading, lowering the book and taking a sip of his beer. As he did so, the door of the bar banged open. Aaron glanced up, as did the table full of loudmouthed men beside him, lapsing in their chatter to observe the newcomer for a moment, offering Aaron a brief second of silence before returning to their conversation.

Aaron looked back down at the book, ignoring both the men and the newcomer (whom, unfortunately seemed just as loud as the group next to him).

—_are dancing to be off Single-handed I should be happy to meet Hector son of Priam in his fury."_

_ While the two Aiantes were talking to one another_—

"Pardon me—!"

Aaron looked up, furrowing his brows slightly at the sight of the woman before him. "Can I help you?" He gave her a quick once-over, eyes lingering on the short, dark strands of hair framing her tanned face and the heavy brown coat (A _man's_ coat!) hanging over her pale dress. "Miss. . ?"

"Hamilton." She stuck a hand out, and Aaron stood up, taking it. "Alexandra Hamilton." Her grip, despite her bony frame, was strong, and Aaron cocked an eyebrow. "Would you happen to be Aaron Burr, sir?"

"That would be me," he said, dropping her hand, not failing to notice the way her eyes lingered on the fine material of his coat. "I don't believe we've met."

"Oh, no," she replied. "I just arrived in New York this morning, sir. I was hoping to speak to you, actually," she continued. "I was just at King's College, and had the chance to speak with an acquaintance of yours—"

"What was a little thing like you doing at King's?" Aaron interrupted, cocking his head. She frowned. "Surely, you didn't just travel here for the college, did you?"

Her eyebrows vanished into her hairline as she titled her head back slightly to look him in the eyes. "That is what I came here for, actually," she said coolly. Near them, the table full of men had silenced, and were watching the exchange with poorly-hidden curiosity. "I was speaking to the bursar—I was denied an accelerated course of study, see—and he mentioned your name. I came to ask you a few questions, and was wondering if you had any words of advice."

Aaron blinked a few times, unprepared for the amount of speaking the girl in front of him could do. "Very well, then." He closed his book, folding the corner of the page down. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"That would be nice."

"You wanted advice, didn't you?" he asked as she slid into the booth across from him.

"Yes, sir." Aaron nodded, raising a hand to wave over a server with a tray of beer. "As I said, I was applying at King's College—oh, thank you." She nodded at the server as he placed a mug of golden alcohol in front of her.

"Drink, please," Aaron said, gesturing at the beverage. "My treat."

"Thank you," she repeated, lifting the mug to her lips.

"Now," Aaron said, lifting his own, nearly-empty mug. "You haven't answered my question. What are you looking for at King's?"

"Well," Hamilton replied blandly, taking another swig of beer, drinking like a man parched. "Higher education, for one."

"Why?" Aaron furrowed his brow, genuinely confused.

Hamilton fixed him with an incredulous look. "Last time I checked, wanting a degree was far from illegal for women in New York. There are even female professors employed within America, are there not?"

Aaron tilted his mug slightly in acknowledgement before taking another sip. "Might I ask why you're so determined on King's?" he asked. "If you are truly serious, there are plenty of other good schools."

Hamilton shook her head so vigorously that, for a moment, Aaron feared it would fly straight off. "King's is what I came here for," she said, "and it will be what I attend. Besides," she added. "King's is only the beginning. There's plenty more in my life I plan to accomplish."

Aaron raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Like what?"

She grinned, yellowed canines glinting in the light of the bar. "A million things," she replied.

"A million, huh?" he muttered. "Another round?" he asked, noticing her empty mug (Good lord, what kind of woman drinks like that?).

"Please."

Hamilton continued talking, even as the server returned with two fresh mugs. "A scholarship to King's College comes first," she told him, tapping her fingers in a frantic rhythm against the surface of the table.

"And after that?"

She made an annoyed, sniffing sound, blowing a strand of hair away from her face as the server turned, leaving again. "Still working on that step, actually." She ran a finger around the edge of her mug, looking peeved. "I was informed the course of study I was pursuing had been taken off the shelves as an option by your associate—prickly, arrogant man, isn't he? You really should be pickier with your friends."

"He's not—" Aaron began.

"A bigot, too!" Hamilton steamrolled right over him. "What satisfaction does he gain from talking down to another? Money and family background aren't the only things that matter in this world, you know! And his _voice_, oh how can you put up with that? All nasally and such—I mean, I know he probably turns his nose up at everything that doesn't have a price tag of thirty five dollars, or so, but, really, does he have to _speak_ like it, too?" She threw her head back, gulping down half of her fresh mug. "Of course, I doubt it's turned out better, now his nose's broken—"

"His _what_ is _what?_" Burr interrupted.

"I may have punched him," Hamilton offered. "What does he do again?" She frowned. "Admissions? No, financials. . ."

"You punched the bursar." Burr stared at her.

Hamilton returned the stare, holding his gaze for a moment before breaking out into a wide grin. "Yes!" She frowned, picking up her mug again. "Where was I?"

"Hold on, _you **punched**_—"

"Oh, right!" She slammed her palm down on the table, ignoring him. "Well, after that—" she shrugged. "I've got a list."

"A list," Aaron muttered slowly, head already beginning to throb from her continuous chatter. "You've a plan?"

"Oh, not at all!" Hamilton replied cheerfully, taking a long swig. "It all depends on whether or not I live that long."

"Live that—" Aaron choked on his mouthful of beer. "Miss Hamilton, what_ever_ are you talking about?"

"Hm?" She wiped her mouth on the back of her already stained sleeve. "The war, of course. I plan to enlist."

Aaron burst into laughter. He couldn't help it—the notion was just too ridiculous. Hamilton, though, seemed to think the exact opposite. She frowned as he tried to stifle his snickers. "What's your problem?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," he said genuinely, shoulders still shaking. "But—Hamilton, please, understand that I don't mean to belittle you, but—" He took a deep breath, collecting himself. "You _do_ understand that women aren't allowed to be soldiers, right?" he asked. "I mean, unless you intend to join as a nurse—"

"No!" Aaron nearly jumped at Hamilton's exclamation. "No," she repeated. "While I respect those who tend the soldiers' wounds, it's _not_. . ." her tongue flicked out, wetting her lips. "Not something I can do."

Aaron frowned. "Well, I can't see any conceivable way that you would ever find yourself in uniform," he told her. "If I were you, I'd give up—"

Hamilton shook her head, taking another drink. "You've known me for all of ten minutes," she said, "but I'll speed the getting-to-know-each-other bit up a bit: I never—_never_—give up." She lifted the mug, taking a slow, easy sip. "And I can be very convincing."

Aaron nodded slowly. It was true that he'd known the woman—could he even say he knew her, really?—for barely any time, but, already, red and green flags were popping up all over the show. Words that seemed to flow from her like the current of a never-ending stream, and the few moments he'd shared with her in their small booth were enough to convince him fully of the gears whirling in her mind. She was loud, steadfast in her goals and beliefs, and fiercely driven: everything in another person that Burr did his best to avoid.

Even so, there was something about her; maybe it was the strange light that had flashed in her eyes when she'd declared her intentions to "do a million things," the fluttering tip-tap of her restless fingertips against the worn wood of the table—or simply an admiration of her drinking talent. Whatever it was, it drew him in, like a moth to flame.

"Fine," he said. "I can't help you with your course of study, or your scholarship, but I can offer you a bit of advice."

"What?" Hamilton asked, leaning forwards, leaning on her forearm.

"You want to get far?"

"More than anything," she nearly hissed.

"Talk less." He could see the surprise in her eyes as they widened, brows drawing closer together as her lips parted in a small, confused O. "Smile more."

She blinked, once, twice, trying to comprehend what he'd just said. "What?" she finally asked.

"Keep your thoughts in your head," he told her. "Don't let anyone know what you're for or against. The better you hide your opinions, the better chance you've got of getting your way."

"That's—!"

"Try it," Aaron interrupted her. "It'll help you more than you think. Look outside." He nodded towards the window, and she turned to glance at it. "Haven't you seen the soldiers in the streets? You may want to join them now, but shouting your thoughts from the rooftops isn't the way to do it. There are royalists and spies everywhere—not just the Patriots." Hamilton turned back to him as he leaned back in his seat. "Hide your opinions," he said, "and wait for it."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Correct me if I'm wrong," she said. "But _that_ is an opinion, isn't it?" Aaron frowned, ready to open his mouth—either to retort or ask what the _hell_ that meant—but she cut him off before he could finish. "Thanks for the drinks." She stood, turning away. "See you."

Aaron nodded farewell, despite the fact that Hamilton had already made her way across the room and pushed the door open. He sighed, picking his book back up. _Unfortunate_, he thought, as he flipped through the pages. But, he told himself as he found the passage he'd left off on, it wasn't as if he'd ever see her again.

—_and savouring the joy of battle which the god had put into their hearts, the Girdler of the World was stirring up the Achaeans in the rear_—

XXX

Alex pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, fingertips buzzing faintly (while two mugs of watered-down beer were far from enough to get her drunk, she found herself teetering, nevertheless, on the edge of tipsiness). _Great_. She snorted. _Fantastic. Another spineless rich boy_.

She sighed, tucking her hands into her pockets, fiddling with the material on the inside of the jacket and tilting her head back. _Fucking fantastic_.

She lowered her head, glancing around the street. She hadn't noticed it earlier, in her mad rush around the city, but, now, she began picking out the people on the streets—the thin, sallow faces of those in rough plainclothes, hanging perhaps a bit looser than they were meant to on thin frames; the pinched, tight expressions of those swaddled in layers of silk; tense, fake laughter and uneasy chuckles; and, most important of all, the stocky, stone-faced men hovering around the street, long blue coats buttoned over vests and cravats, bayonets slung over their shoulders, mud-stained leather boots laced up tightly over their calves. _Soldiers_, she thought, remembering her conversation with Burr.

She fiddled with a loose thread on the inside of her left pocket, leaning back against the wall behind her, watching them. _Soon_, she promised herself. _Screw Burr and his idealogy—soon, it'll be me in that jacket. Soon_—

A hand landed on her shoulder and she nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling around. "Woah!" The man behind her held his hands back. "Sorry, sorry—I didn't mean to startle you."

She huffed, straightening her jacket. "Not a problem," she replied. "Actually, no, it _is_ a problem—must people always resort first to physical contact? Wouldn't a "hey," or, at least, a bit of warning beforehand, suffice? No! Always the shoulder! Shoulder-touch!" She slammed her own hand on the sufficiently befuddled man's shoulder (having to reach up quite a bit, due to his height—or, perhaps, her lack thereof), shaking him slightly to punctuate her point. "With that out of the way," she said, removing her hand. "Hello, and what do you want?"

The man blinked, processing what had just happened. "Uh—" He held out a hand. "I'm—oh, sorry, physical contact." He dropped his hand quickly.

She snorted, taking it and giving it a quick shake. "Alexandra Hamilton," she said. "And you are?"

"Mulligan." He shook back before releasing her hand. "Hugh Mulligan. I happened to overhear your conversation with Burr earlier—not that I was eavesdropping," he added quickly. "It's just—well, you were speaking rather loudly—"

"Not a problem," she said breezily, waving a hand carelessly at him. "I've been told that I have a tendency to shout when others whisper. What did you want to speak to me about?"

"I heard your conversation about King's College," Hugh Mulligan told her. "And, seeing as Burr was rather unhelpful, I thought I'd offer my assistance."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Why? And how?"

Mulligan shrugged. "My brother attended King's," he told her. "And, well, he's similar opinions about the Revolution as you. I thought I could introduce you, and he might be able to put in a word for you, help you where Burr wouldn't. Besides," he added, shrugging awkwardly. "I'm kind of impressed that you uh—" he coughed into his fist. "Well, you know." He made a swinging motion, fists closed loosely. "The bursar."

Alex made a choked, huffing noise, lips pressed tightly together to avoid giggling. "Fine." She chuckled. "Alright. Okay." She followed Hugh as he began walking down the street. "Lead the way, Mr. Mulligan."

* * *

**$35 USD in 1776 would amount to $1,032.13 USD in 2019.**

**So, did Alexander Hamilton splurge on Maria Reynolds in Say No To This? You bet he did ('cause he's a cocksure little bitch).**


	3. Trois

**Everyone else is gonna be appearing soon, I swear!**

* * *

Hugh Mulligan's brother was a tailor. Or, at least, that's what Alex believed—a reasonable assumption, taking into account the dresses and suits lined up in the window, and the heavy wooden sign over the door, meticulously painted with the word _Mulligan's Tailors and Haberdashery_.

"He lives above the shop?" Alex asked as Hugh led her up the stoop.

"Him and his wife," he responded. "They married fairly recently. A little one on the way," he added with a small smile.

"Well, then." Alex smiled faintly as Hugh lifted the knocker, letting it drop against the heavy oak door. "I'll have to give the happy couple my regards."

Hugh laughed, tossing his head back. "Indeed, Miss Hamilton!" He chuckled. "Indeed. The way they act around each other, you would think they had been married for fifty years—"

The rest of Hugh Mulligan's words fell on deaf ears as the door swung open and a head of inky curls popped out. Alex's eyes widened, fixed on the dark-skinned young man in the doorway, back slightly hunched, clothes hanging off his thin frame.

_Shouts, screams, bloody whips and salty tracks on sunburnt cheeks_—

"I—" Alex began, jaw tightening as she turned to Hugh. Before she could continue, however, another man appeared in the doorway, his wide, bulky frame blocking out what light had been streaming from within.

"Hugh!" The man whom Alex could only imagine to be Hugh's brother bellowed, slamming a large, meaty hand down on his shoulder. "How are you?"

"Hercules!" the tall man laughed, wrapping him up in a tight hug. "It's been too long, man! Miss Hamilton!" he turned, gesturing at Alex to come closer. "This is my brother, Hercules Mulligan."

"You've brought a friend, Hugh?" Hercules Mulligan chuckled, holding a hand out towards Alex. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hamilton."

Alex stared at his hand for a moment (_Such hands had held red chains and ropes, had been attached to men whom sneered and jeered, whom had—_) before finally gripping it within her own. "Mister Mulligan," she said stiffly.

"I had just met her earlier today, outside Fraunces Tavern," Hugh explained, shucking his coat and handing it to the slave boy. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I almost forgot." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Cato," he said. "Hercules's."

"Don't let his demeanor fool you," Hercules warned, holding the door open as Hugh stepped through. "He's a cheeky little thing, he is—quite the prankster. Cato," he addressed, "go upstairs and tell Lizzie we've a guest tonight, will you?"

"Not a problem, Mister Herc!" The boy grinned, giving Alex a small, polite dip of the head before darting up the stairs, trotting up the steps and vanishing around the corner, Hugh's coat still tucked under his arm.

"Oh, no," Alex said quickly, holding her hands up before her. "I mustn't stay—I wouldn't want to encroach—"

"Nonsense!" Hercules bellowed (Alex impressed he was a naturally loud person). "We'd be happy to have you! Elizabeth always makes more than enough, and we're always happy to bring a new opinion to the table."

"I. . . well—" Alex's stomach growled, helpfully reminding her both that she'd had nothing to eat since a thin slice of stale bread on the ship that morning, and of the lightness of her purse. "If you insist."

"I do," Hercules said firmly. He turned, walking up the stairs, clearly expecting Hugh and Alex to follow.

Alex followed Hugh up the stairs, glancing around the entrance hall as they emerged onto the second floor: the walls were painted a pale shade of cream, jackets and hats of various colours and styles (a credit to Hercules's own talent, Alex was sure) hanging from hooks on the right side of the hallway, a line of well-cleaned boots and shoes lined up neatly beneath them, practically shining in the combined candle and moonlight streaming in through a window. "Hey." She turned as Hugh placed a hand on her arm. "Are you alright? You froze, earlier, when we were coming in."

"Oh!" She pursed her lips, biting the inside of her cheek as she contemplated how to answer. "It's. . ." she trailed off, the words dying on her tongue. "I'm not quite sure how to explain it," she finally said. "I just—"

"Was it Cato?" Hugh asked. Alex blinked, turning to look back up at him. "He gets that a lot." He smiled faintly, reassuringly. "Let me promise you, Miss Hamilton, that, whatever your impression of slavers is, Hercules is nothing like that. I doubt he could treat his own son better than he treats Cato—the boy is close as family, closer, even, in some cases." He dropped Alex's arm. "My brother detests the very idea of slavery, and I bet, did he not fear so much for Cato's future, he would free him right this moment."

Alex smiled faintly, scratching her palm as Hugh lead her down the hallway. "That's good to know," she commented. "So, I take it's a safe assumption to say that Hercules is on the side of the Patriots?"

"Oh, without a doubt," Hugh said. "Were we in England right now, I doubt anything could stop him from marching right into the Palace and kicking King George in the—Elizabeth!"

Alex closed her eyes briefly, nostrils twitching as she inhaled the warm, savoury smell filling the room. Cato stood at the counter, carefully filling pewter bowls with a thick, brown stew. Next to him was an extremely beautiful, extremely pregnant woman, thick brown locks pinned up in a loose bun at the back of her head. "Hugh!" She smiled warmly, dusting her hands free of flour and hugging him gingerly around her swollen belly. "And you must be Madam Hamilton," she greeted, leaning forwards and pecking Alex on both cheeks. "Elizabeth—Elizabeth Mulligan."

"Alexandra," Alex nodded, smiling stiffly. "Alex Hamilton. Ah—no Madam."

"Of course, darling." Elizabeth smiled a smile that warmed Alex to her very core. "Cato, dear, wash your hands and join us at the table, will you?"

"Yes, Miss Beth!" Cato replied perkily. Elizabeth swooped down, snatching two heavily laden bowls from the boy's arms and set them down on the rickety wooden table squeezed into the tiny kitchen, straightening a spoon and brushing a fleck of dust from the surface.

"Please, sit down." Hercules Mulligan gestured at the seat next to Hugh. "We don't bite," he added with a small chuckle.

Alex's cheeks flushed as her stomach let out a loud rumble. Cato hid a snort with a cough, and Elizabeth chuckled. "Don't worry," she smiled. "We've plenty to go around."

"Thank you." Alex nodded gratefully, ready to reach for her spoon, when she realized she was the only one moving. The others sat quietly, eyes closed and hands linked. Cato cracked his eye opened when Alex didn't take his, waving his hand at her, flopping about on his wrist.

_—ears ringing beneath the roar of thunder and water, the back of her head throbbing from the impact from some lose rubble—a plank of wood, maybe, or a stray coconut. She coughed, eyes stinging, lungs burning, as another wave washed over her, tossing her into the depths of the watery hell that had once been her hometown. _If there really is a God in Heaven. . . _She clawed vainly at the water, trying to force her way to the surface for _just one breath_, despite the drag of the undertow ripping her away from the air she so craved_. He has surely not heard our cries. _With a final, valiant kick, she resurfaced, face breaking the surface of the waves. She scarcely had enough time to drag in a heave of air before she was thrown back again, thrown by the waves. _Either that, or he has abandoned us completely.

Her fingers closed over Cato's, and she let her eyes drift shut, squeezing to keep them closed as Elizabeth began speaking. "Oh, Holy Father. . ."  
"Mon dieu, mon dieu,"_ the woman croaked, scraggly strands of stark-gray hair hanging over her face, paper-thin skin wrinkled and browned by the unforgiving sun. _"Non, mon dieu, s'il-vous-plait." _Her thin, bony fingers clawed at her chest, ribs jutting out sharply from her torso, soaking clothes plastered to her skin._ "Avez pitié, sauvez notre de c'enfer."

"Amen," Elizabeth finished.

"Amen." Hercules, Hugh, and Cato let go of each other's hands, reaching for their silverware.

"Amen," Alex muttered quietly, reaching for her spoon. Her eyes widened, inhaling sharply as she took a spoonful of the stew: a mix of some type of red meat, cooked to a delicate tenderness that seemed to melt on her tongue, and neatly chopped carrots, sprinkled with countless spices that she, despite having traded them for years, couldn't even hope to name. "Oh, my—"

"Good?" Hercules looked faintly amused, while Elizabeth watched, grinning proudly, with a touch of smugness.

"Mm." Alex swallowed, licking her lips. "You're—Mrs. Mulligan, I don't even have the words—!"

"Elizabeth, please." Elizabeth smiled again. "And I'm glad—we've plenty more, so do help yourself."

Alex's lips twitched into a small smile. "Alright. Thank you, Elizabeth."

XXX

The bowls were empty far too soon, the pot on the woodstove scraped clean. Cato, after tossing the bowls and cutlery into a washbucket, had rushed off to his room, leaving the other four to sit around the table, nursing mugs of tea.

Alex took a slow sip, letting the drink warm her insides. "Didn't you throw this into the harbour?" she asked, only half-joking.

Hercules let out a drowsy chuckle—a far cry from his earlier guffaws. "War historian, are you?" he asked, taking a sip from his own mug.

"I try," she replied. "I haven't access to many good resources, though."

"Of course." A brush of seriousness touched the man's face. "Do remind me, Miss Hamilton, why you're here in the first place? Not that you're not welcome," he added quickly. "Tonight's been a pleasure, really. But I think Hugh brought you here for a reason?"

"Yes." Hugh quickly downed the rest of his tea. "Oh, thank you, Beth." He nodded as she leaned over, refilling his mug. "Well, yes." He ran a finger over the rim of his mug. "I met Miss Hamilton earlier today, at Fraunces, as I've already said. I heard her speaking with Aaron Burr—"

"Bah!" Hercules snorted. "Burr. Never seen a man more content to sit back while the world burns, I have. I doubt he has half a well-formed opinion in the empty shell of a skull he calls a head."

"Oh, I completely agree!" Alex said emphatically, sitting up straighter. "Do you know what he told me when I asked for advice? 'Talk less, smile more'—as if sitting by will help win the war! What good is the public's opinion of you when you're knee-deep in a trench and under fire from all sides? Good men will fall on the battlefields while Burr sits at home, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for an opportunity to knock on his door."

"I'll toast to that." Hercules raised his mug to her. "Forgive me, Miss," he said, "but I have to say, I haven't heard anyone speak so bluntly and eloquently at the same time. Where were you schooled?"

"That's actually what I brought her here for," Hugh told him. "She—"

"I'm seeking entrance to King's College," Alex interrupted. "That's why I was looking for Burr—the bursar and I had. . ._ words_—" Hugh snorted quietly into his cup, "—after they rejected me, and he mentioned Burr."

"You were rejected?" Elizabeth frowned. "Why?"

Alex rolled her eyes. "I wanted to take classes at my own pace," she grumbled.

"Why?" Hercules asked. "The four-year course is hard enough."

_Her fingers shook—whether from the cold or something else, she could not tell—as she gripped her arms, knees drawn up to her chest. Hollow eyes surveyed the shattered world around her. _So many stories, gone, just like_**that**_.

Alex wetted her lips before speaking again. "The world's moving fast," she answered. "And I'd hate to be left behind in the dust."

"Ambitious," Elizabeth commented. "Well, Hercules graduated from King's—I'm sure Hugh's told you that—I'm sure he could help you out."

"Oh, definitely!" Hercules exclaimed. "I've some friends in the admissions office who could put in a good word for you—have you got a resume? Records of past education?"

"Some," Alex replied, thinking back to the bundle of papers tucked carefully between the pages of her journal. "But the vast majority of them were. . . misplaced."

Hugh turned to her, furrowing his brow. "Misplaced?"

"Destroyed," she amended. "Water damage. Er—I'm from Nevis. It's an island," she explained, seeing Hercules and Elizabeth's dumfounded expressions. "We were—there was a hurricane."

A flash of understanding crossed Hercules's face, and Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, you poor dear," she breathed.

Alex's eye twitched, nearly imperceptibly, at the pity. Hercules's gaze sharpened, as if he had noticed that something was amiss. "Well," he finally said, "I'm sure we can work around that. As long as you can provide some sort of sample. . ."

Alex's lips quirked into a small smirk. "Not a problem." She grinned. 'If there's one thing I'm certain of in this world, it's that I can write—write my way out of _anything_."

Hercules chuckled—not the mocking, patronizing sort that the bursar had laughed, or the hesitant, uneasy one Burr had let out, but a real, warm laugh. "I'm not sure what it is," he said, "but I have a feeling that you're underselling yourself, Miss Hamilton."

"You must discuss this more," Elizabeth said firmly. "Miss Ha—Alexandra, have you room or board in the city right now? Would you be able to stop by tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, to both." Alex nodded. "I'm actually not terribly far from here. It's an inn called. . ." She frowned, racking her extensive brains. "The Lazy Fussock, I believe—"

Hugh choked on his tea, and Hercules nearly spit it out all over the table. Elizabeth made an alarmed noise, smacking both men on the back as she stared at the girl. "The Lazy—" She shook her head. "Alexandra, dear, do you _know_ which part of town you're living in? Frankly, I'm relieved you haven't been accosted—!"

"It's not that bad," Alex said, watching with mild bemusement as Hugh pounded his chest repeatedly, coughing as his cheeks slowly faded from purple. "It's cheap, and there's not many people about—"

"For good reason." Hercules shook his head. "Miss Hamilton, you _can't_ return there tonight. It would be nothing less than a suicide march."

"I—no." Alex shook her head. "I appreciate it, but I really—"

"Please, Alexandra." Elizabeth reached across the table, grasping her hands. "We've room to spare. You can stay with us—no, I _insist_ you stay with us. I don't know how I would sleep tonight, knowing that you had gone back," she added, cutting Alex off before she could open her mouth.

Alex glanced between her and Hercules. Hugh nodded encouragingly, cheeks still red from his battle with the tea. "If you insist," she finally replied. "But only temporarily—I wouldn't want to be a bother, and I'd be off, soon, anyways."

She was grateful when Elizabeth nodded, not asking about the latter part of the answer, and Hercules smiled. "We're glad, Miss Hamilton," he told her.

"Please, call me Alex," she reiterated. "For all you're doing for me, it'd just be ridiculous if you kept on calling me Miss Hamilton."

Hercules laughed, throwing his head back as he placed a firm hand on Alex's shoulder. "Fine, Alex." He grinned. "Welcome aboard. We're happy to have you."

* * *

**I'm procrastinating on a major project and a shitton of homework right now and internally dying. Should I be working on them? Yes. Am I working on them? No. What am I doing instead? Sitting in my room at 12 am working on more unfinished stories than my dumbass laptop can run.**


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